


Dear Dad

by httpcrytid



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Other, but i swear the ending resolves things in a kinda good way, i apologise in advance, listen i was feeling angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 21:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18039248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/httpcrytid/pseuds/httpcrytid
Summary: Klaus revisits a moment from his past in order to finally feel like he might finally move on.





	Dear Dad

Klaus was walking, alone, through the twisting streets of the town. Rain pattered with violent splashes against the black umbrella he carried, and his shoes disturbed the late afternoon puddles that had begun to gather. The buffed leather was speckled with drops of mud and water, coating the sides of his white socks where they showed from under his trousers. In his free hand, the butt of a long burnt out cigarette still rested between his pale fingers, spilling small clouds of white ash every now and then. 

The route he took was long, extended. His headphones on but with no music playing so as not to be disturbed by any night shift stragglers in the streets. For the moment, it was simply him and his thoughts, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as he could. The aforementioned cigarette was his only reminder of a high, and even then he had barely taken two drags before he let his arm fall to his side for the rest of the walk. He was as close to sober as he could be, and had been, since this same day all those years back. His entire body shook with the aching need for numbness, lips quivering at the pain, but still he walked on— passing his usual spots, the clubs and stores. The dim alleyways, and lamp lit parks. Until finally he reached the wrought iron gate he’d been searching for.

It was faintly illuminated by the setting sun, a crack between the meeting point of the middle letting Klaus know that the groundsman had held up his promise. Tugging at the wet metal, he made a gap large enough for him to fit through, before dragging it shut behind him. No going back, no turning around, just a set night down a well travelled path of his childhood. He dropped the damp butt into a nearby trashcan, resting his umbrella in the crook of his elbow for a moment to brush his hands together, dusting off the remnants of ash. In the distance, he could see his destination— a tall stone building with a faded sign, surrounded by flower beds and headstones.

“Here we go…” He uttered to himself, his walk becoming more brisk as he picked up the pace. Klaus had come this far, he wasn’t going to let himself give in. Not now, not ever. 

Heart thudding louder the closer he got to the building, there was a moment he had to stop entirely. His back hit a tree, slumped against the bark with his free hand pressed to his chest. His breathing was quick and shallow, his cheeks feeling warm and his limbs heavy. Biting his lip, he cursed himself for the lapse in composure and pushed to stand upright again. Fixing the lapels of his suit jacket, he huffed out a long breath and rubbed a hand over the lower half of his face, the words ‘come on’ on a whispered repeat from his lips.

The building— the mausoleum, was more worn than he remembered it. His fingers reaching out to trace new cracks through the brick. Time had been a hell of a curse to them both it seemed, the breaks in the stone mirroring the breaks in Klaus’ person. 

As he neared the door, he sensed Ben’s presence faintly behind him, and a biting frown found its way onto his face. Dipping his head, his brows creased, and he spoke with a stiffened jaw. “I told you not to come.”

“Klaus you don’t have to do—“

“Yes I do.” He didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare let Ben see the tears that already stung his eyes. “I have to do this. For me. I have to do it and you can’t be here.”

“Let me help.”

“No. It has to be exactly like it was. It—“ 

“Then at least let me wait outside. It’s not like I have much place else to go.”

Klaus sighed, finally straightening out and letting his expression soften, if only slightly. “Fine. But you don’t say a word, don’t do anything, until 8am. Nobody comes into this room until 8am.”

His hand jutted out to the side of him with his umbrella, and Ben’s hand reached out to take it. Klaus knew this was his way of agreeing, even if both of them had their doubts, even if Ben wanted so badly to stop his brother, and as soon as both of his hands were free, they pressed against the handles of the doors. Pulling back, he was met with the sight of himself on the mausoleum floor, curled into a ball and sobbing into his shirt. A flashback, a moment caught in time, but here— he was his father, forcing himself to stay longer. 

He stepped inside of the room with a stuttering breath, and heard the doors close behind him, and the first thing he noted was the painfully thick darkness that enveloped him.

The mausoleum was lit only by the setting sun, and reflection of the moon, peering through small ‘windows’ further up the walls. Klaus knew that as nighttime set in, the room would only get darker, and so he supposed his best option would be to get comfortable now.

Walking around the enclosed space, his fingers traced the dips and peaks of the carved statues, and he read the names engraved by each one. His old friends, the old spirits that haunted his nightmares. Their plaques were faded now, but he could see them clearly, each one, paired with a pained face and terrified scream. He wondered whether they were still here, or if they had moved on. He wondered who would join him tonight, and if any would recognise the Academy’s patch on his blazer.

His plan to return to this place had stemmed from his idea to get sober. The one aspect stopping his sobriety was his fear of the dead, and the one place that had been the catalyst to that fear was the place he stood in right now. Reginald Hargreeves was a monster of a man in the years he was alive, everything he did for his children was only a ploy to shape them into his perfect team of heroes, even if that meant years of abuse. Klaus was one of the siblings who had suffered the worst under Reginald’s hand. From small moments of neglect, to well… here. Being locked up in this mausoleum for hours on end with no outside contact. He often wondered if his siblings had been aware of those excursions, or if their father had simply made up another excuse to explain them— as he had done with Vanya. Maybe if they’d known they were too scared to act out against their brother’s torture, he wouldn’t blame them, Reginald had threatened each and every one of them at least once and his punishments were always extreme.

Always extreme.

Klaus continued to trace the room with his hands, once again getting familiar with the brick, the cold walls and looming sense of something terrible. After a short while of this, when the moon’s light was a silver thread arching across the otherwise dark room, he found a spot on the floor to settle into, leaning back and observing every slight movement of dust. His heartbeat had not slowed, in fact it was now an almost painfully deep thud against the walls of his torso, the harsh contractions making every pulse point in his body throb.

He knew this was going to hurt, he knew he couldn’t stop that, and so there he sat— waiting for his fate.

At first Ben heard nothing from the inside of the room except the shuffle of Klaus shifting position every now and then. Then he heard a thud, like a hand hitting the floor, and a fast shuffle towards the wall he sat closest to. Ben could feel it, the presence of somebody else. Somebody like him. And his grip on his book tightened against what he knew would come next.

Muffled murmurs from inside the building turned to a fast repetition of the word ‘no’, which only grew— both in volume and desperation, until Klaus was screaming for somebody to help.

Inside, the boy had backed himself into a corner as three pleading spirits loomed over him. Those same three from the first time he was here, all moaning his name and begging him to help them. Angry at him for ignoring them so long ago, angry at him for being in their space, angry at that little boy for not helping them. Why couldn’t he just help them?

Outside, Ben had hunched over, his head in his hands. Blocking out the noise to the best of his ability. When Klaus had came up with his plan earlier that week, Ben had insisted he not go through with it. Ben knew the pain Klaus would put himself through, and he knew if he really was going to do it, he’d be right there beside his brother the whole time. Klaus has made him promise not to interfere, both then and when they arrived tonight. And Ben, no matter how much it hurt him, wouldn’t break that promise.

The screaming didn’t stop for some time, only growing more and more hoarse as Klaus strained his vocal cords in an attempt to get out. At some point, the 2am mark maybe, he had managed to lift himself up, moving to the door and banging against it from the inside. This door, the one he clawed at for escape, wasn’t in fact locked. It couldn’t have been, considering it was him who had the key— on the inside of the building. Klaus could at any time simply let himself out but by now he was so deeply disturbed, so deeply set into his past, that he had no recollection of this fact. All he knew is that he wanted… needed… to escape.

And as his hands grew scratched and bloodied from his attempts, he grew tired. Soon 3am rolled around, then 4, and Klaus’ previously desperate demeanour grew hunched, his back hitting the wall behind him and sliding until he was once again sat on the floor. The spirits had not left, had not let up their bombardment, and in that moment Klaus gained a streak of anger, letting out his first words in two hours, “WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

Then, all at once, there was silence.

In fact the three looked taken aback, a murmur flowing through them until the ghostly figure of a woman— Sarah, at last spoke, her pain stricken voice now seeming softer, “Why didn’t you help us, boy?”

Klaus, not noticing the sudden change for having his eyes closed, simply sighed a choked and tear filled breath, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t have. I was a kid, I-- I didn’t know what to do. How could I have known what to do, he never fucking told me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Your powers are a gift, boy…” Sarah spoke with an almost motherly tone. “You are stronger than you know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Then how can you sit here and talk to us?” One of the men, Nathaniel, spoke up.

With that, Klaus opened his eyes, the image in front of him blurred just slightly by his tears, but still present. He glanced around the room, at the three faces he had hated for so many years, before looking down at himself, watching his hands, and finding peace in the fact that he was awake and not dreaming. The reality of the situation flooded back to him, and a dry laugh left his lips. He rubbed at his cheeks, feeling the stubble that lay there, and shook his hair out so that his curls were over this nose. He was a grown man, not the boy he had been back then. His hand found the key in his pocket and he pulled it into his view, twisting the metal between his fingers. 

“I did it.” He dropped the object, letting it clatter to the floor, and leaned back against the cold stone with a relieved sigh. The back of his hands found his eyes, drying the tears that remained there, and he bit down on the inside of his lip, holding back a now happy sob. “I did it.”

The three spirits waited for a moment, not saying a word, simply watching the boy they had come to know all those years ago through Reginald’s tactics. 

Klaus was still shaking, his hands still coated in a thin layer of dried blood, his body felt like lead from the fall of his panic. But he could see in the distance the pinks and reds of a rising sun, and in checking his watch, he could vaguely make out the hour hand pointing at a roman numeral for 5. Three hours to spare and he’d done just what he came there to do. He’d exposed himself to his trauma and won. 

It seemed his company had finished their jobs too, as when Klaus raised his head to thank them, he was met with an empty room— leaving him to wonder if they had ever been there in the first place. 

He knew he would by no means be cured by this experience, but the knowledge that he spent a night here again and survived would stick with him for a long time. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his blazer pocket, and with a shaky breath unfolded it. The letter, as it turned out to be, was written in scrawled cursive at the hands of a young boy. A page long declaration beginning with ‘Dear Dad’ that detailed Klaus’ apology for being unable to overcome his fear. Now, Klaus ripped off everything below the letter’s opening- crumpling it and throwing it against the mausoleum wall, and in capitalised red pen, concluded his own new letter by placing a large ‘Fuck you’ onto the thin slip of paper.


End file.
